


Love, Three Ways

by Britpacker



Series: Three Ways [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Three men. One relationship.  Three facets of the same emotion





	1. Adoration - Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Standard disclaimers: They're Paramount's toys. I borrow them for amusement, not profit.  
>  Spoilers throughout the first three seasons, specifics in each chapter's notes.  
> Unbeta'd so blame me for all errors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Tucker contemplates his lover.

I'm getting nothing done today, and it's all Hoshi's fault: well, hers and Liz Cutler's. They're the ones got me thinking with their stupid ramblings in the mess hall. What do you rate as your best feature?

Hoshi started it right as I was passing their table. "I think my eyes," she said, and the way they were sparkling as she posed a question back at her lunch mate, I couldn't argue with her. "But - what's the best feature of your crush? Or - if you're lucky enough to have one - your lover?"

She can deny it 'til she's the colour of an Andorian, but she was looking at me when she came out with that. 

Then she went the colour of a tomato when I replied.

"My best feature? Let's just say, it ain't something you're ever gonna be assessin' for yourselves, ladies."

"And your lover's?" Cutler's too damn forward with members of the senior staff. Malcolm was right all along; discipline on this ship is _waayyy_ too lax if folks feel free to tease their superiors like that woman does.

I gave her my biggest grin (wishing all the while I'd learned how to smirk - maybe it's something they teach at those fancy English boarding schools) and let my accent slow into a real thick drawl. "Ah wouldn't know where t' start," I replied, dropping my empty tray on the stand and sauntering out the mess hall before they could quit giggling.

Hey, it was the truth! Maylin, the sociologist the Captain allowed our new friends the Mandari to send aboard for _behavioural observation_ of the crew asked me what first attracted me to Malcolm, and I told her the truth. 

Everything. The whole gorgeous, uptight, pissy little package. 

I think it was his eyes I noticed first, though. They fascinated me. Still do.

Malcolm don't show a lot of what he's feeling, until you learn to look real close at his eyes. When they go cold, gunmetal grey - run. He's pissed as hell, and an angry Malcolm is not a good thing to be around. Not if you're the one he's pissed at, and that's the voice of painful experience.

If you're on the same side, there's no sight in the galaxy more reassuring. Because he'll be in full Security mode, and all the gods ever prayed to ain't gonna come between him and his duty. 

When they get hints of blue in 'em - well, unless he's around the phase cannon detonators, you're in luck. Then he's being playful and happy, and there's nobody more fun to be with. Or he's about to blow seven kinds of you-know-what out of some bad guy or other. Again, when you happen to be on the same side - it's a good sign.

I could drown in those eyes of his. Yeah, maybe they're his best feature.

No. That means they're more appealing than his mouth, and you know what? I couldn't swear to that. It's sinful, that mouth. And talented. But let's not go there at this time of day, okay? I got half a shift to get through, then dinner in the Captain's Mess, before I can surrender myself to the glory that is Malcolm Reed's mouth.

His lips can look a tad thin, 'specially when he's bristling with displeasure. They narrow right down to this tight little line; his nostrils flare and his eyes get steely. They always look real hard and firm then, which is as deceptive as his compact frame. When touched, they're soft and malleable and oh, so kissable.

And they can turn upward into a whole range of smiles, all meaning different things: and every single one of them is a thing of beauty.

There's his patented little smirk: the one he gives when he's winning an argument (often, 'cause you gotta be very sure of your ground before engaging that lightning brain in battle). It just tugs the corner of his mouth, a real _How-do-I-live-with-being-so-damn-superior_ look I used to ache to wipe off with the flat of my hand. 

I've got a better way now. I kiss it clean off his face and end up with it on mine.

Then there's the happy _shooting-back smile_ , a little wider, that crinkles the corners of his eyes; the wicked grin that flips my heart when he's teasing little-brother Mayweather. And the broad, brilliant megawatt smile he flashes so rarely, when he's really touched and just too surprised to hide it.

I saw that first on his birthday. September 2nd 2151, when me, Jon and Hoshi presented him with his pineapple birthday cake. Blew my socks off then, and still does now.

Best of all, though, is the wide, slightly silly smile he saves only for me. The one where his lips are fuller, still swollen from kissing: when his hair's all mussed and falling into his eyes and his perfect pale skin has an all-over post-coital glow. That smile is _my_ smile; the one that makes my heart swell 'til I figure my chest's about to burst with pride because Malcolm Reed loves me enough to let me see him that way.

Okay. Maybe his mouth is Mal's best feature.

Uh-oh. What about his ass? Tight, shapely, and so damn inviting. I walked into the Armoury last week to find it waving in my face. Not literally, you know, just... he was bent over Torpedo Platform Two, fiddling with the targeting array, muttering to himself as he reconnected a loose power relay. 

There he was, head down, beautiful butt in the air, stretching the material of his uniform. God, did I envy that material! My hands itched to reach out and trace those familiar contours - maybe slide a finger into the cleft, tantalise him with the promise of something more satisfying finding its way around in the night. I didn't notice Ensign Tanner grinning from the rifle store while I drooled.

If Malcolm had turned around a half-second earlier than he did, I'd have been sleeping in my own bunk that night. If not in Sickbay with one of Phlox's freaky critters suckered over my heart. He don't approve of showing affection on duty.

_Affection?_ Hell if anyone asked, I'd have had to claim to have a borrowed phase pistol stuck down my pants!

Eyes, mouth, _bum_ , what other attributes does my lover have that deserve admiration? Those cheekbones rate a mention: impossibly high and fine-cut, they're as sharp as his accent when he's snappin' out questions, pissed as a tomact with his tail trodden on and not trying to hide it. He has amazing bone structure, Malcolm.

Pretty fantastic musculature, too. He's the exact opposite of what you'd expect the head of security to be. Folks might think he's a little on the short side when they look close enough to see past the aura that adds centimetres to him: he's slender; graceful, lithe and fast rather than bulky. His staff tower over him, being the classic Security types; great, lumbering brick shithouses. And he could thrash the behind of every single one of them.

I love to watch him move, 'specially naked, puttering around his cabin or mine, getting ready for his day. That unblemished pale skin with its light dust of fine dark hairs, stretching over solid, wiry muscle... the best show in the universe, and it's a private one for me. 

Damn. Almost forgot his hands. 

They're dextrous and elegant: long, slim fingers that work a console, the innards of a sensor relay and a lover's body with the same smooth assurance. He plays me like a violin maestro with those hands, yet he views them with disdain - even dislike. Because he uses them to kill, and he's got too much of a conscience to be easy about that.

His willingness to use those beautiful hands has kept Enterprise in one piece and the Captain, me, Hoshi, everybody aboard alive over the last four years. He knows that. He accepts he should be proud of it. He just can't help realising, every so often, the cost of his achievement to others.

Can't figure how he got himself mixed up with Section 31. They ain't got a shred of conscience between them, and he...

Not gonna go there. Just thinking of what Mal must have gone through because of one foolish mistake as a vulnerable kid fresh out of the Academy makes me mad enough to fire myself back to Earth at Warp 8 to tear that bastard Harris's head off.

Think of Mal's lovely eyes, his welcoming ass, the sweet, sexy little sounds he makes when I wrap my callused hands around his thick, hard cock. Smaller he may be, but trust me: he's got _all_ the inches he needs in just the right places.

Oh, yeah. There's another damn fine feature. Now which incompetent fool's been playing with the temperature controls in here?

"Enterprise to Commander Tucker. A Suliban and a Klingon have been discovered copulating on top of the warp reactor. Report!"

"Huh?" I'm still trying to figure out whether I just heard what I _think_ I heard when I realise it's him, and he's right there: leaning on the doorframe, arms folded and head cocked, one dark brow raised, daring me to react. 

His hair. If I'm listing best features, that definitely should be included, 'specially at times like this when one shiny sable lock is falling over his broad brow. He's a tad mussed, perspiration gleaming on that forehead, and _ oh, yeah. Itâ€™s furrowing, a cute little crease formed between his eyebrows. 

Guess I really should be asking what brings the Armoury Officer to the Chief Engineer's office.

"Um - hey, Malcolm."

His eyebrow goes even higher; almost as high as my voice. "Are you all right, Commander?"

"Yeah, fine." Okay, voice has gone back to its usual range, and the creases have smoothed from his brow as he steps inside, letting the door shut behind him. "I was just thinkin', Mal - you've got fabulous hair, you know."

"Oh. Erm, yes. Thank you." He's adorable when he's flustered, gets that faint pink tinge to those wonderful cheekbones. I can't help it. I have to lean over and rub my fingertips along them.

"You do like to run your hands through it love, don't you?" He sounds a tad breathless as I do just that, and he leans closer like the gentleman he is, making it easier for me. 

"'specially now it's a little longer again." I'm guessing it isn't what he came down here for, but Malcolm's getting into being petted, and having spent all this time cataloguing his attractions I'm not about to ignore them being so prettily presented. He wouldn't appreciate me saying it, but he's damn near purring as my fingers slide though those silky dark brown strands. 

"Not that I'm not enjoying this, Mistah Tuckah," he says at last, automatically smoothing his hair with a couple of efficient strokes. Looks almost immaculate again. Damn! "But aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

"I'm just enjoyin' the fact you are, Lootenant." Can a voice - an accent - be a feature? Because if so, there's two more to add to the list of Reed perfections. "Okay, I'll play nice. What can I do for y', Mister Reed?"

"Join me for coffee break, as you were supposed to do ten minutes ago?" His gorgeous eyes are dancing, lovely lips turned up. He looks so young and playful I'm sure I've just fallen in love all over again. "I did comm. you as I left the bridge, but you were obviously too busy to respond."

Too lost in my daydreams, he means. "Uh, yeah, well, you know how it is."

"Indeed." Figure my erection's gone down enough to make a stroll to the mess hall possible, but there must still be something giving me away, from the way he's trying not to smirk. 

Unless... "Have I got something on my face?" It wouldn't be the first time I'd wandered into the mess hall covered in coolant or grease. Malcolm shakes his head.

"No, you're just looking a bit... _flushed_. If Phlox happens to see you he'll want to run a thorough physical."

"Ah get one 'f those most nights." If he can be flirty, so can I. And it's making sense now. Break time isn't duty. He can be as mischievous as he likes, and not feel he's breaking any rules. "And I've heard no complaints..."

"None at all." His voice gets deep and throaty, and I swear the words bypass ears and head straight for cock. "Have you been fantasising on duty again, _Commaaander_?"

â€œGonna report me for it, _Lootenant?_ "

He sweeps me one of those up-and-down looks that all but burn the jumpsuit off of me. "Tell me what it was about, and I'll overlook the offence."

"It's nothin' dirty this time," I promise, quite truthfully. Malcolm purses those gorgeous, shapely lips, and suddenly it's not so accurate. "Just... Hoshi got me thinkin' at lunchtime, that's all."

"Hoshi did?" He doesn't need to touch, just lifts his hand toward my elbow and I'm heading in the direction he wants, out of my office, past my subordinates without seeing them and into the turbolift. "That's ominous! I know how that woman's mind works."

"She and Liz were askin' folks about their best features." I'd kind like to know what he considers mine. "Then Hoshi happened to ask what we thought was most attractive about our crushes - or our lovers."

He chews his bottom lip, pearly teeth leaving marks in the succulent flesh I want to smooth away with my tongue. "Now: as I happen to be in possession of a lover, what would I say to that?"

Dammit, Malcolm, are you trying to trigger the fire alarm? I'm about to explode under his searing, seductive stare. "That's what ah was wonderin' about mah sexy man when he walked in, darlin'," I manage to choke before my throat gets just too tight for speech. 

Now he's trying to stop his adam's apple making an escape bid; swallowing hard, eyes darkening the way the only do for me. When he's turned on. 

Damn, I love his eyes!

"Perhaps we ought to - consider the question later?" he growls, and I know he's real excited, because those eyes and that husky tone are complete giveaways. His tongue flickers out to wet his lips, and mine follows suit. He does it a lot; I don't, but my mouth is drier than the Arizona desert just now.

There's only one thing I can say, right? So I do. 

"Your place, or mine?"


	2. Adoration - Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone is as happy as they seem about Trip's new improved love life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: "Silent Enemy" "Shuttlepod One" "Rogue Planet" "Two Days And Two Nights" "Minefield" "Judgement" The Cogenitor" and general for the Xindi saga

Damn. On this ship, a Captain can't even slouch into the observation lounge for a coffee in peace.

"Hey, Cap'n!" my old buddy calls, lifting his hand. "Sir!" his lover exclaims, starting up off the couch until I wave him back down with the best comradely smile I can manage.

"As you were," I say, turning for a mug as he takes me at my word, snuggling down into the crook of Trip's arm, his hands wrapping around my friend's free one in his lap. They're very much off-duty, both in jeans and casual shirts: I can't help noticing Malcolm changes out of uniform a lot more readily since they've been together. I hope they'll think I'm just being discreet by taking a seat with my back to them as they watch the stars streak by from the best seat in the house.

Everyone's happy for them. Everybody wants to tell me what a wonderful couple they make, and what a relief it is they've finally come to their senses. And I have to nod my head politely, agree with their effusions and pretend it isn't cutting my heart to ribbons seeing them together every day.

I knew from the very start Trip was attracted to our oh-so-proper English officer. We've been friends a long time. I didn't need the "Captains Only" file to tell me I'd recruited a bisexual chief engineer. I was just damn glad he wasn't senior enough to read my assessment. He'd be hurt to know I've kept a secret about myself for more than a decade of big-brother friendship.

I never meant to deceive him. Heck, homosexuality isn't a crime - it's not even a taboo subject, this is the 22nd century after all. It's just that when I met Charles Tucker the Third, I figured he was straight. I was never attracted to him, and I didn't want a good-looking, open-hearted, impressionable young officer to get the wrong idea about my intentions.

So I played the straight guy, ogling the women in bars, flirting... by the time I realised Trip was equally enchanted by some of the men we came across, my persona was established. I didn't want to risk our fast-developing friendship on some misunderstanding.

He just wasn't - isn't - my type. 

No, my tastes don't run to happy-go-lucky blonds with their hearts on their sleeves. I've always gone for the strong, silent type. Dark haired, cool and enigmatic... no wonder I wanted Malcolm Reed the moment I saw him.

I never had a chance. His file said heterosexual. His rigid training made sitting down at the same breakfast table as his commanding officer an ordeal, so even if he _had_ managed to fool the Starfleet psychological assessors, engaging in an intimate relationship would have been anathema. And yes, I realise Commander Tucker is technically Lieutenant Reed's superior officer too, but somehow he doesn't _feel_ like it. They interact as equals, always have.

I tried to gently dissuade my friend, especially after our camping expedition on Dakala. When the Eska hunter advised Malcolm to get some sleep, Trip almost knocked them both over in the rush to their shared tent. I felt for him as a fellow-sufferer, and I didn't want to see a good friend opening himself up to be hurt. T'Pol would have been more likely, I thought, to succumb to his unmistakable charms than Malcolm.

And yet - _and yet_. There was chemistry between them from the first day aboard, even if they did nothing but bicker about power ratios and weapon components. They sparked off each other, making intellectual leaps neither would have managed alone, driving their teams into a single tight unit dedicated to the protection of our fine lady Enterprise. Watching them work together to build, install and perfect our three phase cannons was incredible: two men so very different, meshing together to achieve the impossible. The boys back on Jupiter Station still refuse to believe they got one prototype and two entirely new weapons built from scratch up and firing inside three days. 

After their confinement in a freezing shuttlepod I saw a difference. They were closer, taking lunch breaks together more often, sitting together at movie nights, sharing their workouts in the gym. Heck, they even took a shore leave together that ended with them both shuffling back aboard in their standard-issue skivvies. I still don't know what happened, and I'm guessing I probably don't want to. 

Whatever trouble Trip led him into, Malcolm forgave him. Seems whenever I found my Armoury Officer veering somewhere off the path of perfection, he was in close company with my Chief Engineer. 

I was glad to see him opening up a little, finding himself a home among us. I told him the day I realised what my covert lusting over him had really become: we're all we have out here. We need to trust each other. Depend on each other.

He broke my heart a dozen times that day. Whatever I tried at breakfast to make him unbend in my presence only made him jumpier, and out on the hull, pinned like a big bronze bug in a glass case, finally opening up and letting me peek behind his careful shields... when he pulled out his oxygen pipe, so resolutely determined to sacrifice himself for his crew, it felt like the air was being sucked out of my lungs too. He's such a contradiction, Malcolm Reed: the kind of puzzle a man could gladly spend a lifetime figuring out.

I can even pinpoint the exact moment carnality gave way to something softer: something so damned insidious, so dangerous I dare not use the word even now. It was the instant he smiled at me, the creases of agony smoothing from around his eyes as Phlox's most potent anaesthetic numbed the torture of a Romulan mine spike through his thigh. His grey eyes warmed as the drug's soothing pleasure uncurled through tight muscles, and he met my worried stare direct, lips uncurling into a wide, deliciously hazy smile. "Please sir, may I have some more?"

How could I not fall? How could I not risk anything to save that courageous, frightened, vulnerable stoic, even against his better judgement?

It hurt to hear him openly express the objections I'd always known he had to my command style: almost as much as it thrilled me in the launch bay after, with Phlox, T@Pol and Trip running to our aid, to see him grin through his injury's increasing pain, admitting my ways have their benefits as I lifted him in a consoling embrace. I defused the mine, but without Malcolm lying on the hull beside me, guiding my fingers through every twist and pull, it would have been an impossible task. I wanted to shake him, command him never to pull a stunt like that with the oxygen pipe on me again, but I couldn't. 

All I could do was hold his slender, graceful form as long as I could, supporting his well-defined upper body while Phlox worked on the mangled leg. I shouldn't have savoured it, the feel of him pliant in my arms, his sigh rippling into me as the Doc pumped a necessary dose of sedative into his over-stimulated system. His head lolled onto my chest, those ridiculously long, thick lashes sweeping onto his chiselled cheekbones. If there hadn't been a narrow spike of alien metal piercing within millimetres of his thighbone, I could have knelt on the floor holding him all day.

He was cautious around me for a while after, embarrassed by how much of himself he had exposed - aquaphobia, his disgust with himself for not facing the fear like his submariner great-uncle; horrified that he'd expressed himself so freely with a C.O. he was still alive to serve. I tried to reassure him, even to the extent of allowing a stronger Security presence now and then for First Contact situations. Gradually, he stopped peeking at me as if he was expecting me to bite him. 

Our escape from Rura Penthe solidified our friendship. Three days sharing a cramped, frozen corner of a dilithium barge, grunted at by its captain and carefully ignored by his crew (sharing the risk of transporting a convict without a sniff of the reward their commander was getting, Malcolm muttered) left us with nothing to do but huddle together. It would've been mighty uncomfortable if he'd insisted on not fraternising with a senior officer.

"This might be a good time for small-talk, Captain," he observed wryly after the first couple of quiet hours, peeking up beneath those lashes at me with just the faintest glimmer of a smile about his mouth and eyes. I was unshaven; unkempt and so filthy I could feel grit scraping my skin with every small move I made. He, on the other hand...

Fastidious to a fault. He'd brought his shaver and some soap, used a third of his daily water ration to keep himself _respectable_ despite the multicoloured assortment of rags and fur he wore to blend in. He was spectacularly beautiful, and best of all, completely unaware of it.

I'm pretty sure he remained unaware of the effect his half-smiles and cheery quips were having on me. Adapting himself to our temporary home with the same supreme competence he shows at his station, he let me see glimpses of Malcolm peeping through Lieutenant Reed's careful shields. I tried to show him something of Jonathan, the man and not the officer, but I had to be so damn careful. If he'd gotten an inkling of how Jonathan shivered inside when we lay close on the two wide, rough boards we called a bunk for warmth at night...

Those few nights feeling his slim, toned body next to mine stimulated more erotic fantasies than the whole sum of my life experience before. It was months before he stopped coming to me in the hottest, most painfully sensual of my dreams. After all, he was so straight it was hopeless.

Or was he? 

Trip hovered behind him whenever he came to the bridge; monopolised his off-duty time, interrupted his reading and his private research hours. Maybe nobody else noticed the way Malcolm followed him around the mess hall with his eyes at parties, or the special smile that always seemed to touch that beautifully-shaped, sensual mouth when they joked. Maybe only I was watching him close enough to register the way his body arched toward Trip's in the confines of an overcrowded shuttlepod on the way down to shore leave. 

Or maybe not. 

I heard Travis whispering to Hoshi at the senior staff dinner on Talaria. "Don't you wish they'd just get it on, for cryin' out loud?" I saw her grin and roll her eyes when they rose together, the backs of their hands almost brushing, to stroll back to their hotel in the Lower Town. They knew Malcolm better than I did. Was it possible his confidential file was wrong?

Then the Xindi wiped out millions, and personal feelings ceased to matter. We had a war to fight and, crazy as it sounds, my combative Armoury Officer, Mr I-prefer-shooting-back himself _almost_ became a voice of pacific reason. Certainly he kept his head better than some of us did.

Trip was blinded by vengeance, me by our mission and T'Pol - well, I still don't know what happened to her, but she sure as hell was no advertisement for unemotional Vulcan logic in the Expanse.

None of us are the same as before, and our relationships have been subtly changed too. My fear when I asked him to serve as my Chief Engineer was that the command structure would affect my easy buddyness with Trip; it's been worse than that. Since I blew my lid over the cogenitor, there's been a distance. Then I brought Lizzie's killer aboard, and however well he worked through his Degra issues, that was a tough one to swallow.

And on top of it all, I've got this odd guilty feeling that he _knows_. That he's seen me staring at his lover. Trip's more observant than people think. And maybe I've not been as subtle as I'd like to think.

Heâ€™s a good man, Charles Tucker the Third. A good man who has been through a private hell of guilt and grief since his little sister died. I began to think I'd never see that sparkle in his eyes again.

I was wrong. My best friend is back, thanks to the man I love. 

The man he loves. 

The man who loves him. 

It only takes a half-turn of the head for me to watch their reflections in the viewport. They're not kissing - it wouldnâ€™t be _proper_ in company - but they're snuggled close enough, Malcolm's dark head on Trip's shoulder, their arms wrapped around each other. I haven't heard a whisper from either man since I came in.

They're the picture of contentment, and it stabs me in the gut. I have to look away.

Trip couldn't wait to tell me everything, sublimely confident good ol' Jonnyboy would rejoice in his success. "He loves me, Jon!" he yelped, waiting just long enough to be sure the whole of Alpha shift enjoying breakfast in the main mess hall wouldn't hear his cry. "Malcolm loves me!"

My heart cracked in two, but I did my duty. I plastered on a smile and pumped his outstretched hand. "So you've finally gotten around to telling him how you feel."

"Ah didn't mean t'." His open features clouded. "Least, ah don't _think_ ah did. Hell, turned up outside his door last night not even knowing how ah'd got there, rang the chime before ah could think 'f what t' say, and then..."

Damn. My coffee's gone cold, and its bitterness swirls with the bile in my guts until I have to choke against the sour rise of vomit. Trip's always shared the juicier details of his romantic successes with me, but this was one I really didn't need to hear.

I tried to stop him. Really I did. What Malcolm said, the starry-eyed way he looked when Trip kissed him the first time, the malleable warmth of those beautiful pink lips when he responded... it was everything I'd fantasised about knowing first hand, and I couldn't stand it. 

So I shut Jon way and pulled on my Captain's mask. "Commander Tucker!"

His double-take would have been comical under other circumstances. "Trip, I'm happy for you," I said, the biggest lie of my life, and one I'm proud to say I told. "But as your Captain, I don't need to know what you're doing with my Armoury Officer behind closed doors. Just - keep it behind closed doors, okay?"

"Mal's gonna see to that. No _snoggin'_ in the Armoury, and when I suggested makin' out in the turbolift... Hell, Jon, my next stop'd be the nearest airlock if I tried..."

"I'm glad to know one of you has a proper sense of decorum." He shouldn't have mentioned that airlock, though I wasn't sure if I wanted to shove him out or jump myself. If I'd ever envisaged a chance for me, it was gone now. He loved Trip. 

I loved Trip. We'd been friends for so long I couldn't imagine being without him in my life. There's no point losing a precious friendship for a broken dream that could never come true.

"Captain?" They're standing in front of me, relaxed but visibly puzzled. My coffee cup's still full, and I've been sitting here staring at the table for half an hour. 

"We're about t' turn in." They're still holding hands; off-duty, Jonathan, it's almost midnight. You can't reprimand them for being happy, however heartsick it makes you. 

I manage a tired smile; they'll put it down to another crazy day. "Goodnight, guys."

"Goodnight, Sir; can I get you another coffee before we go?"

His concern's so sincere. The finest Tactical Officer in Starfleet, partly because he's so quietly observant. "Thanks, Malcolm, but it's late. I'll give it a minute then turn in too. Sleep well."

"You too, Cap'n." We could power the warp reactor on the energy their eyes generate when they clash. I'm pretty sure sleeping's the last thing on their minds as they stroll away, bumping hips every other stride.

I knew being Captain of Enterprise equalled loneliness. I was prepared to accept it as the burden of command.

I just never knew it would be so damn painful.


	3. Contentent - Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The object of their affections savours his good fortune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: "Shuttlepod One" keeps cropping up. Funny, that.

I don't know why I'm so cautious, moving as stealthily as if a Suliban lurked in the shadows. I could jump up and down on the bunk like a five-year-old on Christmas morning and it wouldn't wake him. Now the nightmares have receded, Trip sleeps like the dead. I'm the one who bolts upright, one hand reaching for a phase pistol, every time my partner stirs.

Partner. It's so much more accurate a description than the one I dare say comes automatically to most people's minds when they see us. Lover doesn't cover a fraction of what Trip is to me, or - he says, and I can't seem to stop myself believing him - what I am to him.

 _Lovers_ always seems to imply a purely sexual relationship. Yes, we have that - with a vengeance, it's bloody magnificent, and I've got the tender anus and fabulously jellified, faintly aching muscles that prove it. But we have so much more: friendship, shared memory and experience, intellectual equality... for the first time in my life I'm sharing more than my body with my bedmate. I have allowed this man, like no other sexual partner - male or (more usually) female - into my soul.

I've never been much good at relationships. Christ, if your own parents don't find you loveable, what chance does anybody else have, I wonder? Madeleine's all right, of course, but she and I had a shared burden; disappointing the Head of the Household. Her by being a mere girl; me by daring to develop, at quite a young age I seem to remember, a recalcitrant mind of my own.

I've tried to explain it to Trip, but his own father is so different I don't suppose it makes any sense that Captain Stuart Reed, R.N. would object to his son choosing a path that made him happy as opposed to one mapped out for him by generations gone before. As for Mother, well... _The Captain doesn't like it, Malcolm. One ought to show a little respect for his opinion, you know._

I ought to have realised earlier, I suppose, that Stuart and Mary Reed ought not to be a person's role models for domestic bliss. God Almighty, she even greets unexpected visitors with the words _I'll tell the Captain you're here_. She sounds like the bloody housekeeper!

The trouble is, when one grows up in an environment, one simply accepts that every family is the same as yours.

Having begun assembling my personal E.M. force fields before I was out of short trousers, developing them through adulthood was easier - and safer - than trying to dismantle them. I did have friends - at school, at the Academy. I might be shy, but I'm also rather opinionated - ask the Captain (both of them, Captain Archer has been on the receiving end of more straight talking from his Tactical Officer than Captain Reed has from his son in the last few years). My sharp tongue scares people away, but my caustic asides can win me allies too.

Insofar as I allow it, which, before Enterprise, wasn't very far at all. I don't know what made the difference here, but as Trip and I ran out of air on a freezing shuttlepod, I realised I'd found a comfortable home for the first time in my life. I'd let people in without being aware I was doing it.

I'd let _him_ in. 

Best move I ever made, even if it took another eighteen months for either of us to fully understand it.

He snuffles in his sleep, nuzzling his nose into my neck. His chin is tucked over my shoulder, and I can feel his eyelashes flicker against my skin as the eyeballs move in REM sleep. One arm is draped over me; his longer body is spooned up cosily around mine, and despite our weary attempts at cleaning ourselves up, I'm still aware of a certain stickiness around our trunks. He couldn't get himself any closer.

It's wonderful. Without realising what I'm doing it seems I've burrowed my buttocks backward, pressing my arse right into his groin. The moment he starts to stir, in either sense of the word, I'm going to feel it.

Lovely. 

I've never been one for _staying the night_ ; always found the morning after frankly unpleasant, however good the main event might have been. I've never cuddled up to anyone in the afterglow, just listening to their breathing slow down. Whisper soppy endearments? Nuzzle? Don't be so bloody ridiculous, Reeds don't do things like that!

Strike through one more poker-arsed tradition, Father. Charles Tucker the Third has turned your son and heir into a serial cuddler. I can't seem to sleep without his arms around me, his long, deep breaths tickling my ear. I don't want to, ever again.

I don't even have to look at him. The instant my eyes open, I can feel the warmth of his mere existence seeping through me. I'll roll over slowly; bring my inevitable erection into contact with his, just for the pleasure of watching his hazy eyes slide open and the blissful, silly smile wash over his face. "Mornin', Gorgeous."

I'm awed that this golden, beautiful man finds me worthy of the epithet. Lord knows, I don't know what he sees in me, inside or out.

I simply have to accept, after seven months, that it exists. He seeks out my company; can't wait to coax me into his arms. Stretches out beside me in the morning with the happiest, daftest look on his face and tells me he loves me. 

It's all so much more than I ever dreamed of experiencing. I was lonely for so long I suppose I'd accepted the hollow sensation inside as I did parental coldness: a part of being alive, something everybody lived with. Losing it - having it filled with heat and laughter and honest companionship - brought me spinning dizzily into what Trip indulgently informs me is what living is all about.

He mumbles my name in his sleep; he's dreaming about me, whispering his love as his hold around me tightens. If I could bottle this feeling and sell it I'd be the richest man in the galaxy as well as the luckiest.

It's a feeling I've yearned for all my life without even knowing. It's contentment, and it's the greatest of all the gifts Trip - _my Trip_ \- has brought to me.


End file.
